Pause the Tragic Ending
by enigma731
Summary: It's the week before Christmas when everything blows up in Cameron's face. AU rewrite of Last Resort. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

WARNINGS: violence, season five spoilers

Note: This fic takes the concept of a hostage crisis from _Last Resort_, but it isn't intended to be the same one. Pretend you just heard the first spoiler about the episode, and this is what it might have turned out to be. If you try to relate this too much to canon, your brain might explode.

Chapter One

It's the week before Christmas when everything blows up in Cameron's face. She's expected madness—her staff has been warning her for days about the annual epidemic of acute stupidity which floods the ER with strung out patients from Thanksgiving to New Years—but the thought hasn't even cross her mind that it might come from within her own life. And especially not from Chase. He is her constant, the rock to come home to after a day's insanity in the warzone that is the ER. In the past two years she's learned that he's patient, willing to wait for her and willing to play the occasional punching bag. So when he suddenly snaps, it comes as a shock.

"Did all the clocks in the ER suddenly break?" He's sitting on the bench just outside the waiting room, face tensed into a glare that Cameron isn't used to having directed at her.

"What?" She's just finished with a car accident victim who came in five minutes before her shift was supposed to end; just given up after an hour's attempt at resuscitation and pronounced the sixteen-year-old kid dead. Little dark spots of blood dot the neckline of her undershirt where they've gotten past her ruined scrubs, and loose pieces of her hair are plastered to her forehead by sweat.

"You're late," Chase says coldly. "Again."

"Sorry," she answers, taken aback by his tone. "Something came up."

"You forget about dinner?" Chase crosses his arms.

"No." Cameron frowns; they've been arguing for weeks about her decision not to go home for the holidays, like spending Christmas without her family is somehow a personal slight against him. But she's chalked it up to the usual ebb and flow of obstacles in their relationship, and hasn't previously considered that anything is seriously wrong between them. "I told you, something came up. With _work_."

"Right," Chase says dismissively, like he isn't entirely sure that he believes her. Like it isn't enough proof just to look at her.

Cameron bristles, tired and sad and more than a little unsettled now. "Sorry there was a wreck on the interstate. Next time I'll request that no traumas occur after four pm. It's just dinner. Let's go now."

Chase snorts. "With you looking like that? Besides, we've already missed the reservation."

Cameron focuses on the scuff-marked floor, not willing to let him see just how much that hurts. "So we'll go somewhere else. Or we'll order in. Seriously, what is wrong with you?"

"Me?" Chase raises his eyebrows incredulously. "Forget it. I'm going home."

"Great." It's out of her mouth before she's had a chance to think, her anger finally boiling over in full to meet his. "Would you grow up for five minutes and talk to me like an adult?"

"No," Chase sneers, getting to his feet. "I'm done with this."

Cameron takes a shaky breath, heart suddenly in her throat, feeling more blindsided by this than any tragic accident. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I can't deal with _this_ anymore. I can't just wait around on the sidelines of your life and hope that someday you might have time." Chase looks away, which only increases the panic roiling in the pit of Cameron's stomach. He never has any problem meeting her eyes when things are trivial.

"Fine," she snaps, overwhelmed by the day and the death of a child on her watch and now, after everything, his sudden betrayal. She's trusted him not to take for granted the tiny steps she's scaled like mountains for him, and now, in this moment, he's ready to throw it all away in a second. Her voice is pure acid as she stares him down and speaks again. "If you can't deal with the way my life is, then you can get out of it."

Chase flinches visibly, but he doesn't back down as she's expected. Doesn't apologize for snapping, or tell her that everything will be okay. Doesn't even give her an ultimatum to act on. Instead he just nods distantly, eyes fixed raptly on the childrens' painting of a hand-shaped turkey that's been hung on the wall for the holidays.

"Okay," he says resolutely. "I will."

And then he turns and walks away, leaving Cameron frozen in place to choke on her own breath. After a moment, she turns and heads instinctively back to the ER, taking refuge in the numbness of professionalism. She isn't ready to go home yet, to sit in her empty apartment and play over this exchange a hundred times in her mind.

She doesn't see the nondescript man in the brown trench coat, doesn't hear his complaint above all the other patients as she walks past. Doesn't even notice him at all until it's too late.

--

Foreman starts in the bar that is barely a block away from campus, because it's the easiest and he's still not entirely committed to this crazy mission. It's just like House, he thinks, to concoct a reason to send all potential help away in the middle of a crisis. Still, he can't be entirely sure that this request isn't legitimate, and it's the kind of situation where assumptions lead to tragedy. Besides, if he's honest with himself, the hospital is the last place he wants to be right now anyway. The general air of barely-controlled hysteria serves only to frustrate him, slowing everyone's attempts to bring this situation to a good outcome.

The bar is dark, and filled with smoke and rowdy undergraduates drowning anxiety over impending finals. Foreman's head starts to pound the second the door closes behind him, and he nearly turns right back around to leave again, task abandoned. But then he catches sight of Chase, stooped over a mug in the corner, disheveled hair hanging into his eyes. He seems entirely oblivious to the loud argument going on at the table next to his, though Foreman has to push his way past the two athletic-looking boys who have apparently just discovered they have the same girlfriend.

Foreman stares at Chase for a long moment before speaking, trying to figure out what to say. Sympathy has never been his strong-suit; he has no time for self-pity, and Chase is clearly drunk besides.

"House wasn't kidding when he said to look for you in the crappiest bar in town." Foreman takes a step backward as Chase jerks in surprise, sloshing liquid over the side of his mug. "Trying to follow in your mother's footsteps?"

"House sent you?" Chase asks bitterly, straightening quickly and nearly falling backward out of his chair. "Cameron go running to him? She always did have time for _that_."

"No," Foreman says tightly. It's obvious something is going on with them, which he probably should have suspected the moment House told him to look for Chase in the nearest bar. But playing personal therapist is the last thing he wants to do right now, and Chase has never known how to keep his god damn problems to himself. He's clearly not going to leave until they discuss whatever it is. Foreman groans inwardly; dealing with a drunk Chase was already going to be bad enough.

"Something happen between you two?" he asks cautiously, really not caring to know the answer.

"She broke up with me," Chase slurs, picking up his mug and downing the rest of it.

"You've had enough," says Foreman, when Chase tries to order another of whatever it is he's drinking. "We have to go." But Chase just keeps talking, evidently not finished yet.

"I told her I want more of her time, and she told me to get out of her life." Chase rakes a hand through his unruly hair, making it look like he's just stuck his hand in an electric socket.

"_Yeah_," says Foreman dryly. "That sounds like the Cameron I know. Come on, we need to—"

Evidently alcohol makes Chase oblivious to sarcasm, because he continues without pause. "She won't take me home to meet her parents, you know. Says it would be _romantic_ to spend the holidays alone with me. Really she just doesn't want them to see me. Not sure they even know I exist."

"Chase!" Foreman explodes finally. They don't have time for this when there's a tragedy in the making back at the hospital. He _especially_ doesn't have time for _this_ regardless. "If you don't want her to get shot, _we have to go_."

Chase bursts into drunken laughter and nearly tips his chair over backwards again, apparently not believing him. "What?"

"There's a gunman in the ER." Foreman says it slowly, so will know it's not a joke. "He got tired of waiting for a doctor to see him, so he grabbed Cameron and put a gun to her head."

It would be almost comical watching Chase's reaction if the whole situation wasn't so screwed up. His eyes go cartoonishly wide, face flushing before all the color suddenly drains from it. Foreman is grateful that Chase doesn't have a drink in front of him now, because it would almost certainly end up spilled all over the floor.

"Cameron's in the ER?" Chase asks, swallowing visibly.

"That's what I said," Foreman repeats. "With a gun to her head. And she asked for help diagnosing this patient, so get off your ass and let's get moving."

"She called House?" Chase asks, getting to his feet so quickly that his chair falls over with a loud clatter that makes the frat boys turn and laugh. He bends over clumsily to pick it up, and Foreman has the feeling that he's using the motion to hide.

"Yes. And House called us. Are you coming or not?"

"House is going to get her killed!" Chase practically shouts, earning them more stares.

"Yes," Foreman repeats, even though he thinks it's probably ridiculous hyperbole. Anything to get them out of here and back to the hospital at this point.

Chase stands there looking lost inside himself for a very long moment before turning and throwing up on Foreman's shoes.

--

The IV alternately itches and stings, the loudest currently in a cacophony of discomforts. Chase scratches at the tape, watching detachedly as the skin around it turns bright red. He's inserted countless IVs in his career, yet can't remember the last time he had one under his own skin. There's a strange feeling of distance as he watches the banana bag drip; he can feel it burning against the back of his hand, yet nothing in this moment seems entirely real.

"Has Cuddy called the police?" Foreman asks in the other room. Chase glances up, looking away from the IV for a moment, and trying to focus on their conversation.

"What, you didn't see the cars outside?" House is standing by the desk in the outer office, swinging his cane like a golf club. "They locked down the ER."

Foreman glances in Chase's direction and lowers his voice before continuing. But it's not enough; glass walls are too thin to keep anything from being heard in the outer office. "Have you called Cameron back yet?"

"Nope." House says it normally, like they're discussing dinner plans, and not a diagnosis that could mean the difference between her life and death. "She said to wait for my team to get here."

"We're not your team anymore!" Foreman cries incredulously, like that's what matters right now.

House makes a face. "You think she wants them on this case? Do you _want_ to get her killed, Foreman?"

Chase stares at his shoes, feeling sick again. He ought to go out there and help, he thinks. But House and Foreman have ordered him to remain right here, and not to move until the IV finishes. He ought to be sober enough to help by now, he wants to say, but at the moment it's too hard to move; to simply shift his weight onto his feet and stand up. It's his fault that this is happening to Cameron, he knows. If he'd just kept quiet a little longer, brought up his complaints over dinner as originally planned, they would be sitting in a restaurant right now.

"I'm dialing," says Foreman firmly, glancing at Chase as though in warning not to move. Chase turns in his chair to get a better view of the outer office as Foreman leans over the phone. The IV tape pulls as Chase moves, making the infusion sting again, and he hisses softly.

"Is everyone there?" Cameron's voice crackles across the speakerphone, only slightly distorted, and Chase feels a feverish chill wash over him. This is confirmation; if he was dreaming, if everyone was somehow mistaken, she would be here right now, scolding House for calling her instead of his new team.

"If by everyone, you mean Foreman," says House, swinging his cane again.

"I'm—here, too," Chase mumbles to himself, disgusted by the drunken sound of his own voice. Cameron won't want him here now, he's sure, particularly not in this condition. He's almost relieved when no one reacts in the other room, apparently not having heard him.

"What?" Cameron sounds surprised, though not exactly panicked, and Chase finds himself wishing suddenly and fervently that he could see her face. "I told you to get your team."

"He is my team," House answers easily, hooking the oversized tennis ball off the desk next to the phone and hurling it toward Foreman, who moves out of the way.

"Go get the others," Cameron insists. "You don't have enough people to—"

"It doesn't matter," a man's voice breaks in. There's something just the slightest bit off about it—filled with tension, but imprecise, wobbling like the soundtrack of an old movie. "We've wasted enough time."

"This is Richard," says Cameron a moment later, the pitch of her voice rising just a little. It isn't much of a reaction given the circumstances, but it's enough for Chase to know it's the gunman who's just spoken. His stomach twists nauseatingly, and he glances at the bucket Foreman's left at his feet just in case.

"Hello, Richard," says Foreman in the slightly condescending tone that always makes Chase wonder how he thinks he's cut out for neurology.

"Tell them your symptoms," Cameron prompts.

"Okay," says Richard's shaky voice, sounding lost now that he's been given his way. "Okay. Um—my head hurts."

"Any fever?" asks Foreman, "Neck stiffness?"

Chase eyes the IV bag, and very slowly gets to his feet, suddenly unable to be in this room with a glass wall between him and the others. He feels terribly far away from Cameron, like she's already been irrevocably taken from him. The glass ought to feel thin in comparison to the four floors and phone line between them, but it's the only obstacle he can overcome at the moment.

"No," says Richard quickly.

"Let him finish," says Cameron firmly, and Chase realizes that she must have heard this entire list of symptoms already. He grabs the IV pole unsteadily and drags it behind him, using it for balance as he shuffles his way slowly to the door.

"My nose runs all the time. And things don't taste right. Everything tastes like—metal." The last word is slightly slurred, sounding almost like it's spoken in a different voice than all the others before it.

"What about medical history?" asks House, as Chase opens the door to the outer office very slowly. He has to brace it with his shoe to get the IV pole through, but neither of the other two men turn throughout the whole painstaking process.

"He has all of his files here," answers Cameron, and there's something different in her voice now, too. Panic, thinks Chase, as he finally comes to a stop a few paces behind Foreman. Whatever she's about to say, it threatens to break through her control. "And he has a diagnosis from Princeton General here, but he'd like a—second opinion."

There's the rustling of papers as Richard apparently pulls the diagnosis from his own file, reading it slowly and painfully over the phone. "Brain tumor. Frontal Lobe." He pauses again before reading the last word. "Inoperable."


	2. Chapter 2

_WARNINGS_: violence, season five spoilers

_NOTES_: Happy holidays to everyone, and thanks for reading!

Chapter Two

For an agonizingly long moment, only silence comes over the phone. Time on this side of the ER door seems suddenly to stretch out, like everything crossed over into some bizarre other world the second Cameron first caught sight of the gun.

"Well," says House finally, "I can see why you wanted a second opinion."

Cameron takes a long, slow breath, willing herself to relax as much as possible. For the moment House is going to play along, with or without the whole team there. She'd been hoping he would buy her request for the added help in diagnosing her patient; really she wishes they were here to keep House under control. She's seen him with a puzzle too many times before, poking and prodding and twisting until something breaks. Cameron wishes she could say she trusts him, but while she would trust his medical opinion in a heartbeat, the idea of relying on his dubious self control to refrain from setting off her already-unstable patient is nothing short of terrifying.

"So?" Cameron asks when the discussion doesn't continue on the other end of the line. "Aren't you going to—talk to Foreman? Write on the whiteboard or something?" She glances sideways at Richard, silently begging House not to say this case is as pointless as she knows it is. She isn't honestly hoping for a different diagnosis; in fact, she really isn't sure what she's hoping for at all. She's heard horror stories about patients snapping like this, and they rarely ever end well. Here the end seems already determined: this man is going to die, and unless Cameron can come up with a good enough lie to convince him otherwise, he will take her and the rest of the hostages down as well.

"I'm not dying," Richard breaks in. "I can't be dying. That's—why I came here. All the other doctors—want the easy answer. Won't look past it. They'd rather condemn me than find the truth!" He punctuates this last with a wave of the gun in his left hand, making Cameron jump.

"God told you you're meant to live?" asks House's voice from the phone. "Some kind of special destiny? Or is it just that you can't kick it before you get back at your wife for cheating on you?"

"House!" comes Foreman's voice from the other side of the line, and then the sound of scuffling.

"You know nothing about my wife!" Richard explodes, waving the gun more, though not in anyone's particular direction. Cameron bites her lip, feeling sick. It was bad enough being at the mercy of a man looking for a miracle, now it's starting to seem as though she's written her own death sentence by bringing House onto the case.

"Richard," says Cameron soothingly, "it's going to be okay. Calm down. Dr. House is the best, he just—has an offbeat sense of humor."

Someone snorts on the other end of the phone line, and for a second Cameron seriously considers picking up the receiver and slamming it onto the hook.

Slowly, Richard takes one breath and then another, lowering the gun back to his side, though it's not like anyone in the room could forget its omnipresent menace. He is a nervous-looking man, the kind whose sanity you'd question in a busy department store. But everyone in the ER looks like they might snap, particularly around the holidays. Cameron supposes it was only a matter of time before one of them actually did.

"How does he know about my wife?" Richard asks cautiously, his hand shaking at his hip. It's hard to tell his age; he could be thirty or fifty beneath the obvious pallor of serious illness and the lines that have etched themselves into his haggard face. He's clearly too thin to be healthy, dark hair having the appearance of falling out prematurely. Everything about him seems labored, like the things the body is designed to do on a daily basis take special concentration for him.

"He doesn't," says Cameron firmly, wondering for a moment herself how House managed to pull such a fantastically inopportune remark from his massive reserve of inappropriate comments. Apparently he's struck a nerve of truth, though she would have assumed only that this man might be lonely, judging by his empty ring finger. "He just—He assumes things about people. Sometimes he's right. It's what makes him such a brilliant doctor."

"Anytime you're finished singing my praises," says House from the phone's speaker, "I believe we have some symptoms to discuss."

"Is that all right?" asks Cameron hesitantly, looking at Richard sideways again. She isn't used to being a stranger in her own department, to ceding control to a patient, but now her life depends on remembering that she isn't the authority anymore.

"I—guess so," says Richard, the end of the phrase delayed, coming out with shotgun suddenness like he's forced it through a barrier.

"This is what you came here for," Cameron encourages, silently willing House and Foreman to have something by now. "A good diagnosis."

"Tell us more about your headaches," says Foreman, his voice louder like he's moved closer to the phone. "There are lots of things that can cause them."

"They're um—They—It's awful. When I first wake up." Richard looks down at his hand holding the gun, the tremor in his hand even more pronounced now, and Cameron wonders suddenly if it's actually a symptom. "I used to sleep—until noon on the weekends. Now it's—the sun's up and my head's exploding."

Inwardly, Cameron groans. She's seen the MRI, but this is just one more confirmation. Classic signs of a tumor-related headache. Schooling her features into impassivity, Cameron concentrates on the phone, hoping House will have something more fitting than the blank she's currently drawing.

"Any sensitivity to light?" asks Foreman. "Or sound? Do you get nauseous when your head hurts?"

There is a shift in Richard's face, like he's begun paying attention to something aside from his own threat for the first time. "Sometimes—if I can get up and vomit, it gets a little better."

"Nausea is common with migraine headaches," says Foreman quickly. Too quickly, Cameron thinks. He's never been a particularly good liar. "Could be that's what you're suffering from."

"No!" Richard explodes, slamming his free hand onto the counter next to the phone. Cameron gasps, and several of the patients who are currently huddled in the curtain areas behind the counter make noises of fear and surprise. The change in him is dramatic, from desolate sick man to enraged terrorist. "You don't think my other doctors checked for that? The meds don't do a god damn thing!"

"Okay, okay," Cameron breaks in, not wanting to know where House is going to take this if she doesn't intervene. "It was just a suggestion. It doesn't have to be the only one. We're just getting started."

"I think it would be better if we discussed this in private," House breaks in, sounding entirely too calm. "Narrow it down so we don't waste your time. TTYL."

Cameron turns to Richard as the phone line goes dead, ready to fight if that's what it comes to. But he has gone completely still, like the outburst has momentarily depleted his last reserve of energy. She isn't sure which is worse—having House's unpredictable and potentially deadly influence on the other end of the line, or standing here alone and in silence.

--

"Migraine is a terrible diagnosis!" Chase exclaims the second House has hung up the phone. "You trying to get them all shot?"

"Why are you in here?" asks Foreman, whipping around like he's noticing for the first time. It's actually a bit comical, Chase thinks, since Foreman has looked straight at him several times already during the conversation. Still, it figures that Foreman would go for dramatics; it's what House would do, after all.

"Oh, I don't know, maybe because my girlfriend is stuck in the ER with a gun to her head?" Chase snaps in reply, the words out of his mouth in a flash, before he's really had a chance to think about what they mean. Suddenly the image of Cameron, alone and afraid for her life is almost overwhelming. He's avoided thinking about the reality until this moment, because as long as that vision is in his mind, playing on the back of his eyelids with every blink and burning his throat with every breath, he isn't going to be able to do anything to help.

"Ex-girlfriend," House corrects. "Which is good. Means you'll be more objective. Or else you'll just get her killed faster than the rest of us." Chase flinches, then shoots Foreman his best death glare, wondering how he's had time to gossip already.

"What?" Foreman throws up his hands in frustration. "I didn't tell him anything! You think I went looking for you in a bar just for the hell of it?"

"Then how did you find out?" Chase asks accusingly, turning on House. It's like the whole world has seen this coming suddenly, everyone but him aware of the impending relationship disaster. It wouldn't be the first time House has kept something crucial from him, he can't help thinking bitterly.

"Cameron called me for help," says House simply, twirling his cane up in the air as if they have all day and nothing better to do.

"How does that tell you anything?" Chase asks, throwing his hands up in the air and nearly knocking over the IV pole.

"Because," says House, hooking the trashcan with his cane and tipping it over so that its contents spill onto the floor, "if you two hadn't broken up, she would have called _you _for help first."

For a moment Chase just stands there at a loss for words, because this possibility honestly hasn't occurred to him. House obviously believes it; suddenly Chase feels lower than low for doubting that Cameron would have put her trust in him had he not destroyed it barely two hours ago.

"And then you would have come to me," House continues, the slight quickening of his words meaning that he knows he's gotten his point across, "because despite your newfound backbone, you still trust my medical judgment over your own. There's no way you'd want her life entirely in your hands." House pauses and shrugs. "But you didn't come to me. She did. Ergo…"

"Ergo this is not the time for you to be showing off how good you are at writing the soap opera that is Chase and Cameron's personal life," Foreman breaks in, turning back to Chase. "And you're still not supposed to even be in here. I told you to stay in the outer office until that banana bag finished. That doesn't look finished to me."

"I'm sober enough to help!" Chase protests, though he isn't entirely sure it's true. Besides which, he's still relatively certain she wouldn't want him here, wouldn't want him holding the other end of the rope after what he's done. But the thought of having any more distance between himself and Cameron is unbearable, though a glass wall seems hardly anything in comparison to four floors and a phone line.

"Then help," says House simply. "Don't just stand there staring dumbly at us. If that was what I wanted, I would've asked Cuddy to join my team."

"Help with what?" asks Foreman incredulously. "The guy's already got a diagnosis!"

"And he wants a different one," House interrupts. "Or weren't you paying attention? How would you like it if I told _you_ you had three months to live, Foreman?"

"That would be a lie," Foreman insists. "Which is what you're asking us to do now. I agreed to help diagnose a crazy gunman, not lie to help him avoid the diagnosis he already has. This is the a problem for the police."

"Wait." Chase drags the IV pole a few steps closer to Foreman, holding onto it tightly so the other two won't notice that his hand is shaking. "You've got no problem playing pin the diagnosis on the gunman when we've not no clue what's wrong, but now that we've got one possible answer, you want no part?"

"That's right." Foreman stares him down without wavering. "If he wanted a legitimate diagnosis, it would just be doing our usual job under more pressure. This--he's demanding that we do the impossible and diagnose him with immortality. It's a lose-lose situation, and I'm not taking responsibility for it."

Anger boils up in the pit of Chase's stomach, threatening to spill over in the form of some extremely rash and violent action. It takes him nearly a full minute to swallow it back down, convincing himself that it's not worth it. If Foreman isn't going to help, then Cameron needs him here, if only to make sure House doesn't get fatally caught up in the game.

"Fine," he says at last, acidly, before turning back to House. "What are you gonna do?"

House snorts, like it should be completely obvious. "Come up with a better diagnosis. Save the day. I live to be a hero."

"House! You can't just create a different diagnosis! You're not _actually _God." Foreman looks thoroughly disgusted with the whole thing.

"We know it's not migraines," says Chase, deciding to ignore both of them and forge ahead. "What about cluster headaches? That would account for the pain associated with sleeping, and the runny nose."

"You know what else would account for a headache which is worst in the morning?" asks Foreman dryly. "A brain tumor!"

"Might fit," says House thoughtfully, twirling the head of his cane just beneath his chin. "Wouldn't account for the metallic taste, though."

"Neither would a brain tumor," Chase points out, his heartbeat quickening just a little. He's almost forgotten about the taste until now, and it's the one symptom which gives him hope that the initial diagnosis might just be wrong. "Allergies? Postnasal drip? Would also account for the runny nose."

"Not unless his snot tastes like metal," House answers doubtfully. "Although that would be interesting. We need to know what those other doctors did. One would assume he wouldn't have been given a diagnosis of an inoperable brain tumor unless someone saw it on an MRI. We need to see it too."

"Radiation treatment for a brain tumor could account for the metallic taste," Chase adds.

"Right." House reaches out with the tip of his cane, using it to press first redial and then the speaker button on the phone.

Chase takes a step back as it rings, heart in his throat until the other end of the line crackles to life. But suddenly it's as though he can't speak again, guilt strangling all of his thoughts and stealing away his voice.

"You have an idea already?" Cameron asks warily. "Because if you don't--"

"We have ideas," House cuts her off. "Plural. In order to narrow down those ideas, we need to speak with your patient."

"I'm here," says Richard's voice. "What do you want to know?"

"I need to know your medical history," says House. "You've obviously been to other doctors. What did those other doctors do?"

"No," snaps Richard stubbornly. "We're not here to discuss them."

"Richard," Cameron cajoles from the other end of the line, "if we're going to find the mistake they made, we need to know what they did."

"No!" Richard's voice grows louder, and there is the sound of someone crying out in a far corner of the ER. Chase stiffens, gripping the IV pole white-knuckled.

"The deal was I diagnose you," says House firmly. "I can't do that if you don't give me the information I need."

"We are not here to discuss any other doctors!" Richard explodes, the sounds of frightened people growing louder.

"House, stop!" says Foreman loudly.

"Foreman would like you to know that any bloodshed is not on his hands," says House.

"Richard, calm down." Cameron's voice is distant and unsure, and Chase can practically see the gun in his mind's eye, the finger inching ever closer to the trigger.

"If you don't tell us what the other doctors did, then we'll just have to go with their diagnosis," House insists. "Which means you're going to--"

"_House_!" It's out of Chase's mouth before he's even realized the voice is his own, adrenaline propelling him toward the phone. The IV pole crashes to the floor, the tape pulling painfully, but Chase ignores it, stopping with his hand poised over the speakerphone button, ready to cut off the call. "Stop it."

For a moment there is only shocked silence on either side of the line, like Chase's outburst has somehow managed to stop both time and impending disaster. The back of his hand is bleeding where the IV has ripped out almost entirely, and he watches it numbly, paralyzed again in uncertainty.

Cameron's voice is a scared whisper when she finally breaks the silence and speaks again. "Chase? Is that you?"


	3. Chapter 3

NOTES: Happy New Year's! (A bit early.)

Chapter Three

Cameron finds herself holding her breath again, mentally cursing the silence on the other end of the phone. In her heart, she knows without question that Chase is there, though whether he's just arrived or has been there silently all along she can't be sure. Ordinarily she can read him as well as any one of her patients' charts, can say what he'll do as certainly as she can predict her own actions. But there's nothing normal about today, like she woke up on the wrong side of the bed and unknowingly stepped into a parallel universe where nothing she's known is quite true anymore.

"Yeah," his voice crackles through at last, more softly now, like he's moved away from the phone.

For a moment, Cameron can't come up with a single word to say, finding herself lost in and smothered by uncertainty. What is it that he's done to make House stop when Foreman failed? No one ought to know about the fight she had with Chase in the ER hallway--it feels like eons ago now--so he should be at home right now, or out sulking in the back of a bar.

"How did you--Who told you I'm here?" she manages at last, glancing sideways at Richard.

He's lowered the gun again, seeming exhausted by his recent outburst. The rage of five minutes' past is nowhere to be seen, leaving him looking ragged and spent, gray around the edges like he might fall to dust before her eyes. Still, she hasn't forgotten his split-second transformation into a would-be murderer, or how it was set off by a simple round of questions. For the moment it seems best just to watch him, to wait until her patient gives the next round of direction.

"Doesn't matter," Chase says tightly on the other end of the phone, and there's an ambiguous exhalation of breath she can't quite place. "I'm here now. And I'm--I'm not leaving." His voice changes with the last, and Cameron can practically picture the words aimed at House.

"He's been here the whole time," says House, with the air of a kindergartener ratting out a friend to the teacher. "In the outer office sulking. Said you wouldn't want him here after you so unceremoniously dumped him."

"I never said--"

"He said it," House insists before Chase has a chance to finish his protest.

"Is that true?" Cameron asks, feeling near-paralyzing anger and hurt assert themselves as the current leaders in the plethora of emotions that have been warring in her since this nightmare began. "You've been there the whole time? You've just been--listening?"

"I--I've been here, yeah." There's something strange, still, about Chase's voice, something his words aren't telling her. But Cameron can't see his face, or what's going on in the room around him, the claustrophobia of her forced reliance on the phone line quickening her breath.

"You've been there doing what?" Cameron snaps, feeling betrayed. His outburst over their dinner reservation was bad enough; the knowledge that he's been in the Diagnostics office this entire time, watching silently and leaving her at the mercy of the circus that is House's whims nearly makes her call the very basis of any relationship they ever might have had into question. "Watching House make a mockery of this case? Staying quiet while he played diagnosis roulette?"

"Ouch," says House, sounding mock insulted.

"Letting Foreman decide that it's not worth it to jeopardize his career to save a bunch of lives?" Cameron continues on, nearly having forgotten about Richard's sullen form to her right. The sudden revelation of Chase's presence has ignited the adrenaline that's been quivering just beneath the surface all night, making it explode into irrational rage as dramatic as Richard's just a few moments before. "Yeah, you're a hero, Chase. So glad you decided to play along."

"What did you want me to do?" Chase asks, sounding angry now too, and maybe just the littlest bit out of control. There's still something off about his voice, raising a niggling familiar warning flag in the back of Cameron's mind, but she can't quite place it. "You're the one who told me to get out of your life. Just thought I'd comply."

"Right!" Cameron snaps back. "And by that I meant that in the event my life is in danger, please don't make any effort to help me! Just sit back and watch! Think it would make a good screenplay?"

And then suddenly there's a hand on her shoulder, the cold metal barrel of the gun against the back of her neck making Cameron simultaneously freeze and gasp.

"Stop," Richard says quietly, but it's enough to make everyone fall silent on both ends of the phone line. Richard's hand is shaking, and for a moment Cameron feels as though she can't breathe past the knot of dread in her throat, her heart pounding deafeningly in her temples. How stupid to have let her emotions take control so completely; it's a mistake she hasn't made since her early years working for House, and now it threatens to be her last.

"Okay," Cameron manages, swallowing hard. "Okay, we're done. We're all here for you now. Just tell me what you'd like us to do."

Another crash from the other end of the phone sends Richard whirling toward it, the gun poised on the receiver like it's a third person. But there's a lag to the movement, Cameron realizes, watching as his arm sinks slightly from its position, changing the gun's aim to point toward the counter. He doesn't seem to notice, tense and breathing hard. This is a symptom, a sign of muscle weakness and loss of motor coordination. House needs to know, Cameron thinks as her breath finally returns. But mentioning it aloud would be suicide, especially since it likely supports the diagnosis of a fatal brain tumor.

"I need--I need--" Richard stammers, as though the motion has exhausted him again and his brain now fails to manufacture words.

"We can't read your mind, Richard," says House calmly, like he doesn't know that one wrong move could spell death for any of the two-dozen people huddled around the various beds in the ER. Everyone is gone but those too sick to help themselves.

"You need to see his MRI," says Cameron, thinking quickly. House will notice the motor control problems if he can just get a good visual of her patient. "That's what he needs, Richard. Then they'll be able to come up with some more diagnoses for you."

Richard looks uncertain, but thankfully too spent to fly into a rage again so soon. "Nobody goes in or out."

"They still need to see," Cameron insists. "My colleague, Dr. Foreman, is a neurologist. He can tell you much more about that MRI than I can. Interpreting images of the brain isn't my specialty." It's not technically a lie, though she is certainly capable of seeing a large fatal tumor on a brain scan.

"What about a webcam?" Chase asks, finally speaking up again. "There's one on House's computer here. And you've got one on the computer at the nurse's station. Simple. Nobody has to go anywhere. And, Richard, you'll be able to see exactly what we're doing. No tricks."

Slowly, Richard nods.

--

It takes nearly two hours to get the webcam conference set up, during which time Foreman finds himself forced to be the reluctant facilitator. It's against his better judgment to play a role at all in the case now, but he justifies it with the thought that communication between the ER and the rest of the hospital is going to be necessary no matter what, so it isn't quite the same as taking part in this hopeless differential. Besides which, the whole affair requires the approval of the SWAT team currently downstairs, as well as Cuddy's permission.

House has never been one for diplomacy, and between the remaining effects of the alcohol and the fight with Cameron that everyone involved has just witnessed, Foreman isn't about to let Chase take responsibility for anything more than setting up the pot for the coffee House has demanded. In the end, it goes more smoothly than anyone expects. Both Cuddy and the police are more than eager to have a window into the ER, even if it means playing by Richard's rules and remotely observing the diagnosis.

"They'd better not find out this line is bugged," Chase mutters, eyeing the computer. The webcam is still disabled, the SWAT team's trace having just been confirmed before their return to the remote viewing location. "We told the patient no tricks."

"Actually," says House, emerging from the outer office where the television is still on, "_you _told him that. Foreman and I made no promises."

"It doesn't matter." Chase scratches agitatedly at the spot on his arm where he's ripped the IV out, bag still a quarter full. Nobody's going to question him now, though, particularly not since Cameron knows he's here. "Are the hostages going to be any less shot if he finds out it was me who lied and not you?"

"You're not referring to Cameron by name anymore," says House, making his way over to the coffee pot yet again. He and Chase have each had at least three cups so far, and Foreman thinks he really ought to cut them off. The stakes are high enough as is without being amped up on caffeine. "Interesting. Distancing yourself in case she gets killed after all."

"Cameron isn't the only one down there," Chase snaps. "Or did you forget? As far as you're concerned, _you're _the only one who matters here, right?"

"Guys." Foreman crosses his arms as they both turn to look at him. The situation stirs in his mind the vague memory of the few days he's spent lately taking care of his mother, and the sense that there's something inherently wrong with having to give this much direction to a grown adult. "We're ready to go on the webcam conference. Do we know what we're going to say to Richard?"

"_We're_ not going to say anything," Chase sneers in Foreman's direction. "You've made it perfectly clear that you don't want any part in this differential."

Foreman takes a breath and tries to force himself to be patient, reminding himself of all the things he learned in medical school about the ways people act when they're panicked and in a crisis. And drunk. Well, maybe that last part wasn't from med school. "Fine. I misspoke. Do _you_ two know what _you're_ going to say to Richard?"

"We're going to look at an MRI, apparently," says House.

"And then we're going to tell Richard that it's inconclusive," Chase breaks in quickly. He shoots a meaningful look at House. "No matter what it looks like."

House puts his hands up, feigning innocent cooperation, which earns him another glare from Chase.

"Okay." Foreman takes the seat directly in front of the computer, waiting for the other two to crowd in around his shoulders before starting the webcam and connecting. He feels the irrational need to speak slowly, as if to young children, and forces himself to bite back the frustration. The possibility for tragedy seems palpable in the air all around, yet House insists on playing games, and Chase is too much of a mess to step away. No one is willing to admit that they should all be getting out of the way and letting the police handle this. Foreman gets to his feet as the blurry picture comes up on the screen, moving so that House can sit down.

"House. What took you so long?" Cameron is there immediately, looking both exhausted and battered, but not panicked. Her brow is furrowed in determination, jaw set, and for a moment Foreman is struck by how utterly transformed she seems, authority abdicated yet still in her element in the midst of an emergency. Eighteen months ago, Foreman would have laughed in the face of anyone who'd told him that Allison Cameron would be a senior attending in the ER, and damn good at her job. To his left, Chase takes a noisy breath, noticeably avoiding looking at the screen.

"Technology is complicated," says House evasively. "I couldn't remember how to set up my webcam. Then I thought I'd Google it, but I forgot how to use the internet."

"House," Chase warns under his breath. On the screen, Cameron tenses, though it's not clear whether she's reacting to Chase's voice or something unseen.

"I want to see," comes a man's voice from over Cameron's shoulder, and then the patient comes into view. The man is clearly sick, and Foreman checks off symptoms mentally. Weight loss, fatigue, headaches, speech and motor deficits. He's a perfect candidate for a fatal brain tumor.

From the other side of the screen, Richard regards them with the cold and distant eyes of a man who's already exhausted his last resort and now has nothing left to lose. The game is more dangerous now than ever, the lives of the people he can barely make out huddled in the background weighing heavily on Foreman's conscience.

"No tricks?" asks Richard, slurring ever so slightly. He brings up his left hand to show them the unmistakable cold gray outline of a handgun, raising it to point meaningfully at Cameron's head. She flinches ever so slightly, but keeps her eyes trained on the computer screen. Foreman glances sideways at Chase, who looks like he might be sick again.

Chase swallows visibly. "No tricks. Show us the MRI?"

Slowly, Richard lowers the gun, though it never leaves his hand. Balancing the thick manila file that Foreman recognizes as medical records on the counter, he reaches in with shaking fingers, fumbling for a long moment before pulling out the image from an MRI scan and holding it up to the computer screen. On the scan the tumor is clearly visible, a solid mass on the frontal lobe, easily too large to be operable - too large to be treated with drugs or radiation. Too large to be an abscess from an infection, at least without other symptoms present. This is a clear-cut diagnostic dead end. Out of the corner of his eye, Foreman sees

Chase look at House, who clicks the screen capture button before Richard pulls the scan away.

"Well?" he asks impatiently, raising the gun again.

There's a strange look in House's eyes, the far-off expression he gets mid-epiphany. On the screen, Cameron raises her eyebrows, not quite managing to ignore the pressure of the gun's angle.

"I think," says House slowly, "that I've seen another case like yours."

"You have?" Richard's voice is quick, rising a notch in pitch, and Cameron looks momentarily surprised.

"Yes," says House, "_very _rare."

"But—curable?" Richard's voice is suddenly filled with hope, transforming him from a bitter dying gunman to a man who might have had a good life once.

"I think—If we can find the right treatment, yes," says House. "But I need to consult with a few of my colleagues."

"Can you give us some time?" Chase cuts in diplomatically, stopping House from simply breaking the connection.

Richard wavers for a moment before nodding. "But—you'd better have something for me when you get back. Something—good. Or—" He gives the gun one final meaningful wave before reaching toward the computer and switching off the connection from his end.

"What was that?" asks Foreman, as soon as he's certain the camera is off.

"That," says House, getting to his feet quickly, "was almost certainly an MRI of a fatal brain tumor."

"So you just—lied to him?" Chase takes a step toward House, who is rapidly advancing on the door.

"Yep," says House. "Going to talk to Wilson." And with that, he's gone.

Foreman glances back and forth between the swinging door and Chase before deciding that House is the looser of the two canons at the moment.

"Stay here," he tells Chase firmly, making his way toward the door as well. "Watch the computer. If Cameron calls, it's you she'll want to talk to."

"Right," Chase snaps bitterly. "I think she made it pretty clear I'm the last person she wants to talk to."

Foreman sighs heavily, pausing with his hand on the door. This is hardly the time for personal arguments to be brought in, but the potential for tragedy is great enough without adding guilt to the mix. And Chase is going to be diagnostically useless as long as he's distracted.

"Yeah," says Foreman dryly, "that's _exactly_ what she said. Or wait, was I listening to the same conversation? Because I heard her say she was upset that you weren't trying harder to talk to her. Look, I don't care what you two said to each other before. Get over it. Cameron doesn't give up that easily on the people she cares about."

"Not so sure I fall under that category anymore," Chase says to the blank computer screen.

Foreman shakes his head, already halfway out the door. "Cameron doesn't give up that easily on _anyone_. That's what makes her so damn annoying." Satisfied that he's made his point, he turns his back on Chase and the office and hurries after House.

--


	4. Chapter 4

NOTES: Thanks for sticking with me, and I think you'll really like this chapter. One more left, and then the epilogue!

Chapter Four

Richard goes quiet as soon as the webcam is shut down, a strange little smile on his face. It's almost as unsettling as his sudden bouts of rage, though Cameron isn't sure why. Richard's baseline over the past few hours has been blank, almost entirely emotionless, like his body is instinctively conserving what little energy it has left for the most basic survival functions. Any change in that at all raises a little warning flag in the back of Cameron's mind, reminding her just how quickly this all threatens to get out of hand; how close it's come to that several times already.

And then there's the fact that House's miracle cure is absolutely and unquestionably a lie. While it's most certainly bought them some more time, she's now blind to what the people on the outside are using that time for, and all Cameron can think at the moment is that they're setting up an insane gunman for an enormous letdown.

Richard sits perfectly still in the chair in front of the nurses' station computer, staring at the screen with that haunting little smile on his face. He crosses his arms over his chest, the barrel of the gun cocked upward just enough to still look vaguely threatening, though Cameron's fairly sure if he fired it at the moment he would only be able to hit himself. Still, the memory of it pressed against the back of her neck is vivid and terrifying enough to make her keep him in her sight. After making a hurried check of the patients scattered around the periphery to be sure they're all still as stable as possible, Cameron moves to sit on the ledge opposite the nurses' station desk, where Chase used to bring his lunch to share with her. Richard is still motionless, to the point where the upward curve of his lips is starting to resemble the macabre grin of a decaying corpse.

"That doctor said he can cure me," he says softly, making Cameron jump. He's been quiet for an indeterminate amount of time, though it's long enough that she's nearly started to fall asleep with her eyes open, exhaustion taking its toll despite the adrenaline.

"He said he's seen another case like yours," Cameron says carefully. She knows better than to deny it; any mention of terminal illness so far has sent Richard into one of his manic rages, but she isn't about to build his hopes up further, either. It's dangerous, and on top of that, just plain cruel.

"He said that if they find the right treatment--" Richard breaks off, like saying it aloud might make the promise disappear.

Cameron bites her lip, hesitating. She recognizes the agony in his face now, the wish for one last hope, one last thread of possibility to cling to. She remembers the bitter taste of desperation, the belief that there just had to be another answer. And suddenly she can't help but grieve for Richard, though like so many times before, she isn't entirely certain whose losses it is that she's mourning.

"It's always about finding the right treatment," Cameron says softly.

"And you think--he can do that?" Richard turns the chair around to look at her, dropping his arms to his sides. The gun is momentarily obscured behind his leg, giving the conversation a surreal air of normality.

"Dr. House is a very good doctor," Cameron answers after a moment, biting her lip again. She remembers suddenly how she and Chase used to argue when she first started working for House, their constant disagreement over realism versus false hope when it came to keeping patients informed. It had been black and white in her mind once. She'd thought it was better to save the bad news until it was absolutely necessary, to let people live on in blissful ignorance for as long as possible. The more time goes by, the more patients she sees, and the more the pain in her own memory fades. The gray areas have begun to take over.

"And Dr. Foreman? You said he's--he's a neurologist?" Richard's brow furrows in concentration, like it's a monumental task remembering what she said scarcely an hour ago.

"Yes." Cameron looks down at her leg, fingers playing absently with a wrinkle in her scrubs. The fabric is still dotted with the blood of the car accident casualty she'd finished just before this day sunk into hell. "I used to work with him. And with Dr. House. Well, _for_ Dr. House, actually. We both worked for him."

"And what did you do with him?" Richard seems genuinely interested, though whether it's because he thinks they are the miracle team who's going to save his life, Cameron can't tell. For a moment, though, she can see who this man might once have been—someone caring and social. Maybe even charming. Nothing like the bitter hollow shell that's sitting across from her now.

"We—we solved cases like yours," Cameron says after a moment's hesitation. "Cases nobody else could."

For a very long time, Richard is quiet again, like something she's said has sent him into a near-catatonic state of concentration. When he speaks at last, his voice sounds different. Stronger. Almost in control. "I guess it's lucky then. That I got here when I did."

Cameron looks at the floor, feeling guilt settle like a lead weight in the pit of her stomach. Again she remembers sharing his position, if only through the man she'd loved, remembers being at the end of road, praying for a miracle. Richard sees them as his saviors now, as the superhuman team of doctors capable of plucking him from the jaws of death. Terrorist or not, it seems beyond cruel to let him go on believing the lie.

"You'll go to jail, you know," Cameron says quietly, hoping to change the subject. Maybe there's still time, she thinks. A chance to reach Richard while the tumor-born rage is dormant, before it takes over for good. To save the good man buried underneath the disease while he still exists, if only to let him die in peace.

"I know," Richard says quietly, eyes filling with resignation again. Slowly, laboriously, he picks up his right hand and rests it against his thigh, drumming his fingers slowly. "But it won't be life. I haven't—I haven't killed anyone yet. I'll do my time, get my treatment, and then—Maybe I can get my life back."

"You really think it works like that?" Cameron asks, the gun catching her eye again as Richard turns his hand up. The gesture isn't threatening, resembling that of any man fidgeting with an object while talking, almost as though he's forgotten just what it is that he's holding. "You're willing to take that chance?"

He shrugs. "If that's what it takes to escape a death sentence. If that's what it takes to make people take me seriously. If that's what it takes to be seen as something other than a—crazy violent old man."

Cameron swallows, forcing herself to momentarily forget that this entire conversation is based on a series of ever-worsening lies. The past five years have taught her to be excellent at compartmentalizing. "Whatever happens—even if they were willing to drop all charges against you on the basis of illness—You're not going to be the same person when all of this is over."

Richard's eyes widen, and for a second Cameron is certain that she's made a mistake and unwittingly pushed him back over the edge into madness. But then he swallows and takes a long, shaky breath. "How can you be so sure? You don't even know who I am."

"No," Cameron says cautiously, watching his reaction for warning signs. "But things like this—they change people. I mean, really everything changes us, right? We wake up in the morning as one person, go to bed as someone just a little bit different. If we change about the same amount all the time, we don't notice that it's happening. Until—a month, a year, a decade later, we find a picture, or a journal, and get a shock."

"And what if we change a lot at once?" Richard looks down at the gun, grimacing like he's seeing it for the first time.

"Then we notice."

Richard's head snaps up, and he licks his lips before speaking again. "I was married. For fifteen years. She was—she was my high school sweetheart. We went to college together. Moved up here together. Then-"

"Then what?" Cameron whispers, suddenly thinking of Chase again, wondering what he's thinking, and whether he's gone to find Wilson with House.

"Then I got sick. Scan after scan of my head. Ear, nose and throat specialist. Then a biopsy, chemo, surgery. She stayed for a while, but eventually it got –" Richard makes a clumsy shrugging motion. "She said she didn't recognize me anymore. I was--already dead to her. And so she left."

Cameron sucks in a soft gasp, the words hitting her like punch to the stomach. She understands this man in no uncertain terms now; his face no longer resembles a corpse's in her mind, but instead that of the ghost she least expected to be haunted by today.

"I'm sorry," she breathes.

"You're sorry?" Richard parrots, looking for a moment like he might want to laugh. "_Sorry_ for the man who's threatened to kill you?"

"I was married once too," she says quietly, looking at her hands folded in her lap. "He—had terminal brain cancer."

"What happened?" Richard asks sharply.

Cameron shrugs ever so slightly, staring at the floor now. Anywhere but at his eyes. "He died, eventually."

"You were still with him?"

Cameron nods, biting her lip.

"And—the other doctor—" Richard begins, stumbling his words again. "Dr. Chase? He's—what, your boyfriend now?"

Cameron looks up at him finally, shaking her head a little. "Used to be. Until about—twelve hours ago. You were right, you are lucky. I wasn't supposed to be working tonight."

--

By the time House and Foreman have been gone forty five minutes, Chase thinks he would rather walk down to the ER and be shot than sit staring at the blank computer screen for another second. The effects of too much alcohol and coffee, coupled with adrenaline and not enough sleep have begun to take their toll now that he doesn't have anything else to focus on, giving rise to the worst hangover he can remember having since university. His head is threatening to explode, and his stomach feels like there are several small armies fighting a war inside of it. Were the thought of leaving the computer not so completely agonizing, he thinks he would actually be content to spend the next hour passed out on the bathroom floor.

Every so often, he catches himself checking his cell phone, desperate for any news he might have missed, and tempted to call Cameron himself. It's stupid and a huge risk, he knows, but the need to know that she's still alive and unharmed is overpowering. Forcing himself to be content with the thought that the SWAT team is downstairs and would have notified someone had there been gunshots fired, Chase focuses on organizing the clutter covering the surface of House's desk.

When he's made his way through the thick stack of blank paperwork, put away porn magazines (in the second drawer), and lined up all of the various knickknacks across the front of the desk in order from smallest to largest, Chase finds himself staring at his cell phone again. Suddenly he can't shake the feeling that Cameron is in even more danger than before, that by leaving her entirely alone with her captor is a huge mistake. At the irrational feeling that she is about to die, and with the memories of their godforsaken stupid fights vivid in her mind, Chase finally breaks down and jabs in a quick text message, requesting that she get back to him as soon as possible. It's sent before he's had a chance to think, and the instant it's gone, the pounding in his head seems twice as loud.

With shaking hands, Chase connects the webcam, holding his breath until Cameron's image slowly comes into focus on the other end. In the background he can see Richard, slumped over the counter on the opposite side of the nurses' station, chin resting in his palm. His eyes are open, but so very still that for a moment Chase can't be sure whether he's fallen asleep.

"You have an update?" Cameron asks quietly, glancing over her shoulder at the unmoving gunman.

"It's—House and Foreman—went to find Wilson. At home, I think," Chase mumbles. The relief of seeing her is so entirely overwhelming that he's nearly forgotten he has no legitimate reason to be calling, and what a huge disaster that could mean.

"Right," Cameron says slowly, her eyes narrowing a little. "That's what House said. Before they left. You don't—_That's_ what you called to tell me?"

"Yeah," Chase answers nervously. It seems stupid now, and he curses himself mentally. Richard, however, remains blessedly still, seeming not to have noticed that their conversation isn't exactly focused on his case.

"You called me just to talk?" Cameron asks incredulously, and Chase can see her jaw tighten despite the resolution of the computer screen.

"I wanted to check in," he says quickly, hoping at least to keep Richard from becoming agitated if he is awake and listening. "Tell you that I thought they'd still be a while. I didn't want you to think—" Chase breaks off and swallows, feeling sick. "I didn't want you to think we'd abandoned you."

"I didn't think that," Cameron snaps, obviously upset now. Chase can't tell whether she's scared or angry, or some combination of both, but the thought that he's responsible for it makes the room spin. Leaning closer to the computer screen, Cameron lowers her voice, obviously trying to make sure Richard isn't listening in to this part. "He told me some of his medical history. He's had treatment for brain cancer before. Chemo and surgery."

"I'll pass it along," Chase says quietly, holding his breath again until it seems relatively certain that Richard still isn't about to fly off the handle.

"I guess—I should go, then," Cameron says, but makes no move to disconnect the webcam. There's something in her eyes that he can't quite read, and Chase wishes for the millionth time that he were there in person with her. The controlled façade is finally starting to show cracks of exhaustion and panic, and Chase feels a sudden renewed surge of anger toward Richard for doing this to her.

"Wait," Chase says quickly, remembering his earlier fears that something will happen and she'll die angry at him.

"What?" Cameron glances over her shoulder at Richard one final time, then seems to resign herself to having this conversation despite his presence.

"I didn't—" Chase takes a breath and swallows again, trying to catch the right words in the constant din of thoughts racing through his mind. "It's my fault you're down there right now."

"_What_?" Cameron repeats, surprised.

"If I hadn't—If I'd waited—That's why I didn't say anything before. Why I was just listening. I didn't—want to make things worse for you again." Chase glances at the careful line of toys he's made parading across the front of House's desk. "And I really wasn't sure you'd want me here."

"Why wouldn't I want you there?" Cameron asks softly, brow furrowed in confusion and hurt. "You're a better doctor than Foreman. And you—care more than House ever would."

Chase feels a stab of disappointment when she doesn't add anything about their relationship, but tells himself he deserves that now. "You told me to get out of your life."

"Because you attacked me!" Cameron exclaims, flinching when she realizes how loud she's been speaking, and waiting a moment to ensure that Richard hasn't moved before continuing. "I don't—what _was_ that? You keep—telling me that you know this is hard, and telling me that you can be patient and don't mind waiting. And then all of a sudden—you're furious with me over a _dinner reservation_? You know I have no control over my hours when there's a trauma! You _know_ that!"

"It was never about the dinner reservation!" Chase finds his hand raised in frustration before he knows what he's doing, forcing himself to take a breath and place it back firmly on the surface of the desk. "It was about you shutting me out of your life."

"And how was I doing that? By—working? Being busy because it's the holidays and people have come down with an extra severe case of idiocy?"

"Right," Chase says bitterly, suddenly feeling the sharp ache of disappointment and abandonment all over again at her denial. "That's all it's been. You gave me a drawer, you let me spend the night sometimes, but—Ever since you did that, it's been one step forward and two more back. Do your parents even know I exist?"

Cameron's eyes widen, the flush the argument's raised suddenly draining from her cheeks as the realization strikes. "_That's_ what this is about? The fact that I don't want us to visit them for Christmas?"

Chase takes a shaky breath, and lets out a long sigh before answering her. It sounds trivial and petty when phrased aloud, words seeming inadequate to convey the anxiety and shame it's caused him over the past month. "Yes."

"Why didn't you say something?" Cameron asks, sounding hurt, and maybe even a little bit betrayed.

"I did!"

"No, you didn't! I mean—Yeah, you kept saying you wanted to visit them, but you never said you'd be this upset if we didn't. If I had known—" Cameron breaks off, shaking her head.

"I was going to talk to you about it over dinner! And what was I supposed to say?" Chase asks, suddenly having trouble breathing past the huge lump that's sprung up in his throat. "'Please, Allison, if you're not too ashamed of me, would you let me spend the holidays with your family even though I don't think they have any idea who I am and you apparently don't want them to'?"

"You think I'm ashamed of you? That's not—You're hurt because I don't want to go and spend Christmas with my very loud, very exhausting family like I do _every year_? Because I want to spend it alone with _you_ instead?" Cameron presses a hand momentarily across her temples, lowering her voice when she speaks again. "Of course they know about you. This is _me_, Chase. You really think I'd do that to you?"

Chase looks at her for a very long moment before answering honestly, blinking so rapidly it almost hurts. "I—don't know."

"Chase," Cameron whispers, swallowing visibly. "You know that I—"

But the end of her sentence never comes, interrupted by the sudden crash of Richard's chair against the floor as he springs to his feet so quickly the motion almost looks superhuman. Cameron cries out in surprise, whirling around toward him as he raises the gun. His movements are jerky and uneven, like his limbs are moving too fast for his brain.

"Enough!" Richard roars, eyes simultaneously wild and vacant, giving him the bizarre appearance of a man in a horror movie.

Chase gets a brief glimpse of Cameron throwing herself to the floor as the gun goes off, and then the computer screen goes black, the ER monitor destroyed by the blast. For a moment, he can only stare, frozen in shock, shaking uncontrollably.

"Wow." The voice makes Chase jump to his feet reflexively, the chair rolling back so fast it hits the wall. House has appeared suddenly in the doorway, in time to witness an unknown length of the conversation. "Guy's got good aim."

"Shut up!" Chase barks, unable to think about what's going on right now. About the implications of that statement.

"Good thing you got a chance to tell Cameron you love her," House drawls sarcastically. "Oh no, wait. You didn't."

Chase's legs propel him across the room before he realizes what's happening, his fist colliding with House's jaw on force born of sheer terror. House is on the floor before the smack of impact has had a chance to register in Chase's mind. He doesn't wait to see what happens after that, just keeps running until he's in the bathroom at the end of the hallway, tiles swimming up under his knees. Chase barely manages to hang his head over the edge of a toilet before retching violently.

When he can breathe again at last, he sinks down with his back against the wall, curling forward to hug his knees and trying desperately not to think.

--


	5. Chapter 5

NOTES: Last real chapter; epilogue next. Feedback is love!

Chapter Five

The blast of the bullet overhead is so loud that it sends an explosion of pain through Cameron's skull. Everything happens so quickly that for an instant she thinks the shot must actually have hit her. It isn't until she smells the smoke from the ruined computer monitor, and sees the broken glass raining down all around her that she realizes what's happened, that she's managed to get out of the way. There's no time for relief, though, as several pieces of glass and debris bite into her arms. Shielding her face as best she can, Cameron pushes against the chair blocking her escape, and rolls over to the meager shelter of the counter on the other side of the nurses' station.

At first she can think only of the pain, of the ringing in her ears and the room spinning around her as the cuts on her arms start to bleed. Forgetting everything she's learned in her medical training, she rips the pieces of shrapnel from her own skin, getting to the last one before realizing that she's only making the injuries worse. Instinctively, she starts to get up, to reach for the box of tissues she knows is on the counter above her head to staunch the bleeding, only to catch sight of Richard's shoes not two feet away from where she's seated. In her confusion, she's managed to lose track of him, to forget that he's the reason for all of this destruction. Slowly, Cameron forces herself to raise her eyes to meet his, keeping her back pressed to the partition separating her from the rest of the ER and preventing her from simply moving out of his path of aim.

"Enough," Richard repeats, no longer yelling, voice shaking bizarrely so that he sounds like a very broken old movie.

"Okay," Cameron manages, her own voice sounding hoarse and alien in her ears. When he doesn't respond, it takes her a moment to realize that she's whispering. Clearing her throat, she tries again, forcing herself to be louder and slightly more authoritative. "Okay, no more webcam. They're still going to help you, Richard. We just need you to wait a little bit longer for Dr. House to get back."

Richard's breathing is hard and fast, the arm supporting his gun hand shaking badly. All of his symptoms seem magnified suddenly, and Cameron suspects that he's having some kind of a tumor-induced seizure, perhaps completely unaware of what he's doing. The man she was speaking to just minutes before is gone completely, as dead now as if the tumor had already destroyed the vital parts of his brain. The sickening knots in the pit of her stomach tell her, despite the total lack of diagnostic proof, that that man isn't coming back.

"I don't _have_ a little bit to wait," Richard growls, gun flailing wildly in his hand, and making the room spin faster around Cameron. It seems unlikely that he'll be able to aim now, but a haphazard shower of bullets could be just as deadly, if not moreso.

Glancing over Richard's shoulder, she catches sight of the ruined computer for the first time, and suddenly the loss of her window into the comfort of the diagnostics office is devastating. With a twinge of panic, she realizes that she never got to finish her answer to Chase, and wonders how much of this he got to see before the display was destroyed. For all she knows, he's four floors up thinking she's already dead right now. Heart beating faster, she questions whether that means that he'll call the whole thing off, find House and tell him to stop any efforts toward constructing further lies. In a way it's what she's wanted, since they can't mislead their patient if they can't even contact him, but suddenly Chase's reassurance that they haven't abandoned her down here seems to ring cruelly ironic.

"They can only work as fast as they can work," Cameron tries, hating how much her voice is shaking now. The cuts on her arms are stinging sharply, little rivulets of blood mixing with sweat to trickle down her skin and speckle her scrub pants crimson. "You have to understand that. It's not—It's not going to make them work any faster if you start killing people."

"Shut up!" Richard explodes again, kicking the computer chair so that it ricochets off one wall of the nurses' station before falling over with a crash. A man who's bedridden in a nearby corner cries out in pain and surprise, and Richard fires a shot blindly in his direction. Cameron doesn't dare get up to look at whether the bullet has found its target, but she holds her breath until she hears him groaning again, a sure sign that he's still alive, at least.

"Richard, you don't want to do this," Cameron tries again, quietly but urgently. She knows she's bargaining with her own life now, but she's never been good at sitting back and doing nothing in an emergency. Every part of her is screaming that she has to do something to try and save the other patients trapped here at the very least. "You told me before. You're just here to get your life back. We all know that. We're all working to help you. If you start killing people now—you're just ruining this for yourself. We can't save you from spending your life in jail."

"Shut—up—or—I'll—kill—_you_!" Richard roars, sucking labored breaths between each word as though the volume of his voice is sapping his strength. He's sweating profusely now, droplets of spittle flying from his lips with every syllable. Clumsily, he swipes his other sleeve across his nose, which has started to run again.

Cameron flinches as he rounds on her with the gun once more; it seems impossibly even more dangerous now that she's seen it fired twice casually. With a shaking hand, she reaches up to brush loose hair out of her eyes, and her fingers come away covered in more blood. A fresh wave of panic thrills through her, and Cameron slowly feels around her hairline until she finds the cut just above her temple. It's slippery with wetness, but numb from adrenaline and shock. Before she has a chance to consider whether it might be serious, the phone on the counter next to the ruined computer rings, making her and Richard both jump.

"I'll shoot!" Richard warns, turning the gun toward the phone. "If I find out you have anything to do with this, I'll shoot!"

"I have no idea who that is!" Cameron protests, curling further back into the corner now that he's turned away from her. Blood has started dripping into her eyes, but she still doesn't dare stand up to grab the tissues. Realizing she'll have to stop the blood flow on her face and arms somehow or other, Cameron pulls her ruined scrub top over her head and uses it like a towel, shivering in the thin fabric of her undershirt.

Turning the gun back on her, Richard fumbles with the receiver for a long moment before managing to hold it against his ear, hand shaking badly. "What?" he barks.

Finding strength in the moment's necessity, Cameron tears the shirt into strips and winds them crudely around her arms as makeshift bandages as she watches Richard's reaction. He listens for a long moment, face paling and eyes going wide.

"_Nobody_ comes in here!" he explodes, and Cameron realizes with a sickening jolt that he's talking to the SWAT team outside. They must have heard the shots fired, she realizes. And then the rest becomes clear as day, the fact that the webcam must have been bugged seeming suddenly obvious even in the fog of adrenaline. Of course the police would have to be in on this operation, and of course they would never allow such communications between the inside and outside of a hostage situation without having the ability to observe. Swallowing, Cameron tries desperately to school her features into neutrality, lest he see the truth on her face.

"How did you know about that?" Richard asks icily a moment later, as if he's reading her mind anyway, and she knows when his quavering finger moves to hover over the gun's trigger again that he's figured it out.

"I've got a message for you and your people," Richard whispers, voice eerily soft, like the utter stillness before a hurricane. Putting the receiver down with a clunk, he jabs at the speakerphone button, aiming the gun carefully at its dimly lit digital display. "Can you hear me now?"

"We can hear you, Richard," comes the overly professional and falsely calming voice Cameron can only surmise is the hostage negotiator.

"Good," he breathes. Then, lightning-quick, he raises his arm above the counter on the phone's side, making an arc through the air. He squeezes off the trigger again and again, almost convulsively, the deafening blasts sending spots dancing across Cameron's field of vision. The hostages on that side of the ER scream, and several of them try to run, though she knows none of them are actually mobile. Glancing over to the opening in the nurses' station divider at the sound of a sickening thud, Cameron sees one of her patients facedown, a pool of blood spreading quickly from his ruined skull, the bullet hole visible even from ten feet away.

Lowering the gun for a second, Richard looks around, eyes narrowed in concentration. "That's—what, five down, eight to go, I believe?" Picking up the phone with his free hand, he aims the gun directly at Cameron's head again.

"Goodbye," he rasps into the receiver before dropping it onto the hook with a click.

--

When Foreman gets back to the diagnostics office, House is sitting in the middle of the floor looking dazed. The desk chair is upended, its wheels still spinning a little, and House's cane is lying a good five feet away from him next to the wall. Chase is nowhere to be seen. Narrowing his eyes, Foreman takes a few steps closer to House and clears his throat.

"What the hell did you do? Lose a fight with an office chair?" he asks incredulously.

House shakes his head, grimacing a little, and gingerly presses two fingers to the left side of his jaw. "Chase hits like a girl."

"_Chase_ hit you?" Foreman supposes it isn't really that hard to believe, considering Chase's current state of dubious sobriety, plus the stress he's under, and taking into account any one of a number of choice things House might have said. Still, after three years of watching Chase sit back seemingly content to act as House's personal punching bag, it's a bit difficult to picture.

"Yes," House repeats, using a foot to hook over his cane and standing slowly with it. "Apparently got me confused with the dying moron who was shooting at his ex-girlfriend."

"Cameron got shot?" Foreman asks immediately, feeling a fresh wave of shock at that revelation. That would explain Chase's behavior as well as his sudden absence, and it would be just like House to make a big show of himself first while passing along a crucial fact like this as casually as today's lunch special.

"_No_, you idiot," says House disgustedly. "I said '_shooting_ _at_,' not '_shot_.' Although…I guess there's not really any way to know for sure, since our patient was brilliant enough to destroy the webcam."

"Wait." Foreman stares at House for a moment, mentally reeling. He isn't sure how much of this to take seriously anymore, but for Chase to throw a punch and leave the computer unattended after their earlier conversation, something must have gone terribly wrong. "Richard shot the webcam, Chase punched you and…what, ran off? How do you know what happened?"

"Because, I was here," says House, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Watching Chase confess his sweet, sweet love to her. Or rather, failing to, I should say. Looked like the whackjob had some kind of a seizure. Flew off the handle and started shooting."

"We have to do something!" Foreman insists, though he's not sure exactly what that should be. The SWAT team downstairs must already be aware and is doubtless taking action. Still, despite his previous convictions to avoid taking responsibility in this situation, the thought of simply leaving Cameron in a room full of dying patients, one of whom is intent on ending her life, is unacceptable. Suddenly he remembers being trapped in his own glass prison, and everyone's unwillingness to break protocol in order to save his life. "We have to figure out something to tell him. A diagnosis that he'll believe."

"Interesting," says House, eyeing him for a long moment. "Here I thought you might actually stick to your guns for once. Pardon the metaphor." Walking over to the overturned computer chair, House hooks his cane around one of the legs and flips it upright neatly. "If you want to do something, go find Chase. Check the bathroom first. If he's not there, try the janitor's closet. Then the play room on peds."

"Don't get anyone shot," Foreman says over his shoulder, out of the room before House has a chance to reply. He's not willing to simply sit back and be facilitator anymore. House's stalling tactic in finding Wilson at home and dragging him out of bed to confirm the diagnosis they already had is now threatening to claim Cameron's life. Foreman knows there's no time to play around anymore, House be damned. He has to find Chase and, together, they've got to come up with the perfect lie for Richard.

Pushing the door open so quickly that it bounces off the wall, Foreman strides into the bathroom, and stops short when he catches sight of Chase curled up in front of a toilet full of vomit. He hasn't honestly been expecting the search to be this easy, and for a moment Foreman just stands there, taken aback, before walking into the doorway of the stall and leaning over to flush the toilet, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

"If you puke on my shoes again, you're paying for their replacement," he warns Chase.

He blinks blearily up at Foreman, looking too far off to be surprised by Foreman's sudden appearance, and for a moment Foreman wonders whether Chase is on something besides extreme stress and the aftermath of alcohol.

"House send you?" he asks at last, tipping his head back against the wall and straightening his legs on the floor. His jaw is clenched so tightly that Foreman can see the muscles straining beneath his skin, and his hands are shaking visibly in his lap.

For a moment Foreman isn't sure how to answer, torn between sympathy and instinctive disgust before deciding that the truth isn't very likely to be productive right now. "No. But he told me what happened."

"So—what?" Chase asks, looking at the floor. He picks up the end of a roll of toilet paper and turns it over and over in his hands. "Come to tell me we're done? It's completely and totally _useless_ to try? I already _know_ that, Foreman, you can go home now."

"No, that's not what I came to tell you," Foreman snaps, suddenly angry at Chase's complete and total lack of conviction. "Because I _don't_ believe that. Just because we don't have the webcam anymore doesn't mean we can't still come up with something to tell Richard. Cameron needs your help."

"No, she doesn't," Chase says desolately, shredding a piece of the toilet paper in his trembling fingers. "We're just making things worse." He swallows visibly. "If she's even still alive."

"She's alive," Foreman interrupts, resisting the urge to actually yell at Chase. "And you're pathetic." Over the past three years, despite their constant spats and disagreements, he's come to terms with the fact that Cameron actually is a friend, and one he'd rather not lose. Worse is Chase's sudden eagerness to write her off, which he can only assume is a defense mechanism in the wake of their recent fight and now the increased threat to her life. He's never believed in romance, but Foreman does believe in commitment.

"How do you know?" Chase asks, looking up at him abruptly. "You weren't even there. You didn't see—"

"I _know_," Foreman repeats, even though he doesn't really. "The police would have notified us if the situation had changed."

"That's a nice, polite way of putting it," Chase scoffs. "And the cops don't owe us anything. If Cameron _had been shot_, they'd be off dealing with it, not rushing to phone us."

"Chase!" Foreman reaches down and snatches the damned toilet paper tube out of Chase's hands, forcing him to concentrate. "Cameron loves you. She's down there right now with some psycho shooting at her. She's alone and she's scared, and she's probably taking what small comfort she can in thinking that _you're_ working to save her life. What would she think if she knew you were hiding in here instead?"

"Cameron doesn't love me," Chase insists sullenly. "Maybe before, but not now. I told her I thought she was ashamed of me. That I didn't trust her."

"Stop it!" Foreman explodes, leaning down and grabbing the collar of Chase's shirt. "You're a coward. Now shut up, get off your ass, and help me save your girlfriend's damn life."

For a moment Chase only stares at him in shock, reddened eyes going wide. Then he pushes away roughly, feet slipping on the floor for a few seconds before he manages to regain his balance and stand up. "There's nothing to be done! The guy's got brain cancer and he knows it! Cameron confirmed it earlier. He told her he's had a biopsy, then chemo, then surgery. What are we going to tell him? That they just made a mistake? He doesn't want a different diagnosis, he's angry about the one he's got so he's going to take it out on all of us!"

"He's had brain surgery?" Foreman asks, surprised. Suddenly the pieces start to fall into place, the last few anomalies in Richard's constellation of symptoms making sense. It seems too simple now, surprising that they haven't been able to figure it out before on their own. Still, until now they've been missing this crucial part of the patient's history.

"That's what I said!" Chase insists impatiently. "They removed a tumor from his head. It must've come back, and now it's gonna kill him. And Cameron."

"But that accounts for the runny nose and the metallic taste," Foreman interrupts, ignoring him. "He's got a CSF leak. The arachnoid membrane must not have healed properly after the surgery, and now his cerebrospinal fluid is draining into his sinuses. A leak that major, and left untreated for that long—" Foreman shakes his head in amazement. "That's going to kill him long before the tumor will. And if House is right about him having seizures…"

"Great!" Chase throws up his hands in frustration. "You've just proved to yourself all over again that this is hopeless! The guy is _dying_!"

"Yes," Foreman continues excitedly, starting to hope that just maybe somehow all of this can still have a positive resolution. "He's dying. Very, very quickly. As in, we keep him occupied for another few hours, and he might not be able to function anymore."

For a second Chase just stands there, looking dumbstruck and breathing rapidly. Then, before Foreman can even start to figure out what's going on, Chase is pushing past him, practically sprinting for the door and back down the hall toward diagnostics. Foreman follows a few steps behind, just making it inside before Chase starts talking excitedly at House's turned back.

"House! I know how we can save Cameron."

Glancing over his shoulder, House shoots them both a glare, but Chase continues, not to be deterred.

"Foreman figured it out. The guy's got a CSF leak. He's _fucked_. He's already having seizures, and with the amount of stress he's under in there—We've just got to keep him talking for a few more hours until he kicks it."

"_Chase_!" comes the jarring sound of Cameron's disembodied voice. Only then does Foreman realize that the phone on House's desk is off the hook, the speaker button depressed. They must have walked in on a conversation already in progress, he thinks, turning slowly to look at Chase.

The rest plays out like a horror movie, sickening and completely out of their control.

"You lied!" Richard roars nastily. "_You're_ no better than the rest of my doctors! It was never about helping me, all they wanted was to save _you_! Well, I can make sure they fail at _that_ before I 'kick it!'"

Then there is the sound of Cameron's terrified scream, and a single shot being fired.

--


	6. Chapter 6

NOTES: So this chapter got extremely long, but I figured you guys would kill me if I split it. And it is a hiatus fic, after all, so it's finished just in time. I hope you enjoy. As always, feedback is love.

Epilogue

Instinctively, without a pause for thought or breath, Chase runs. Nothing matters but getting down to the ER as immediately as possible. Not the four floors between him and his target, or the police barring the doors, or the pain in his head. Not the fact that this will almost certainly spell his death.

The door to the bathroom he took refuge in earlier goes by in a surreal flash. If only he'd stayed in there, Chase thinks. If only Foreman hadn't come to find him, or he'd insisted on staying uninvolved, perhaps House would have managed to buy them enough time for Richard to harmlessly expend his strength. Chase realizes suddenly and painfully that House would have known this all along, that it was probably the purpose of the games with Wilson. And now he's ruined it again, destroyed everything important in his life by doing nothing more than trying desperately to hold on.

Cameron is almost certainly dead or dying right now, and the agony of that thought propels him forward. There are hospital security guards in front of the elevator doors, and Chase flies past them toward the stairwell at the end of the hall. This is his fault, unequivocally and unquestionably. He thinks he ought to get away, far away, before he has the chance to do more harm. But it hurts too much to stay still right now, and the only direction he knows how to move is forward—as he always has—toward the feeble hope of a last chance still to make things right.

There are security guards at the stairwell too, but Chase pushes past them roughly, adrenaline easily overpowering them in their exhaustion. He doesn't wait to see if they're following, just keeps running, sprinting down the steps two at a time. At the bottom of the last level, he stumbles and goes sprawling, the sharp shock of pain in his ankle almost a relief as it eclipses his racing thoughts for an instant. In seconds he forces himself up again, pushing the door open so quickly that it smacks into the shoulder of the surprised security guard on the other side.

The hallway is empty, the SWAT team nowhere to be seen, but Chase doesn't even pause to find out what that means. The glass doors to the ER are closed tightly, but he's not to be deterred, not for anything now. Grabbing a chair from the nearby information desk, he uses it like a four-pronged battering ram, driving it into the barrier until there's a smashing explosion of shards raining down from overhead. Chase is vaguely aware of the security guard he's passed shouting at him as he barrels ahead through the hole in the door.

He doesn't make it ten feet inside before being confronted by four members of the SWAT team, guns raised. For a moment he simply freezes, feeling the impact of his mad dash truly for the first time. His head is pounding painfully in tandem with his ankle, his breathing so ragged that little gold pinwheels of oxygen deprivation are dancing across his field of vision. Still, he can think only of Cameron, and that the last seconds of her life could be slipping through his fingers.

"I'm a doctor," he manages at last, realizing he must look to them like a patient newly escaped from the psych ward. "I was—I was working with Dr. House in the—negotiations. I heard someone was shot." Chase swallows convulsively. "I can help."

The officer in charge lowers his gun, and the other three follow, the one standing furthest back motioning Chase toward the nurses' station on the other side of the ER. "Over there. Behind the counter. We've secured his weapon, but—Well, you'll see. It's good that you came."

On rubbery legs, Chase makes his way over to the nurses' station, eyes everywhere at once and refusing to focus on anything. When they finally do still, it is on Richard first. He is curled on his side, eyes closed, body wracked by the violent convulsions of a grand mal seizure.

Steeling himself, Chase finally looks toward the back corner, where he instinctively knows Cameron is, lying completely motionless. Biting his lip in a desperate attempt to stay calm, he sinks to his knees beside her, shakily brushing hair away from the bloodied wound on her temple. He's been too late all along, he realizes, the fact spreading through his body like ice, sapping the strength of adrenaline. A shot like this would be absolutely fatal in a split second.

"Chase?" she whispers, eyelids fluttering open, and he nearly jumps out of his skin in shock.

"How—" he manages, still gaping at her. "He—shot you."

"Not there," Cameron mumbles, biting her lip as her teeth chatter a little. "He had a seizure. Missed." With great effort, she pulls the bottom of her undershirt up to reveal a neat entrance wound, at the perfect angle to have damaged any one of her vital organs, or even a lung. The blood on her forehead is only a cut, Chase realizes, though it's little comfort now.

"Oh, god," he whispers, momentary relief replaced immediately with a fresh wave of panic. She's shivering, he realizes, as he feels the cool skin of her forehead, recognizing the beginning of shock. "Okay. Just—stay with me, okay? I have to get some things."

Cameron nods weakly and drops her hand back down to her side, shuddering a bit more violently. Rushing to the nearest gurney, Chase pulls it over clumsily, trying to keep half an eye on her at the same time. She needs fluids immediately, he knows, and he isn't going to be able to start an IV easily with her lying on the floor. Kneeling back down, he brushes his hand over Cameron's forehead, and she jumps a little.

"I need to move you, okay?" Chase waits for her second nod before slipping his arms under her shoulders and knees, trying to lift her to the gurney as smoothly as possible so as not to aggravate the bleeding. Only now does he notice the blood-soaked fabric covering her arms, and the remains of her scrub shirt in a tangled crimson mess on the floor. She'll need a transfusion, he thinks, but there's no time to call the blood bank now. Getting her settled on her back, he makes his way to the warmer in the corner of the supply room, pulling out several heated blankets and an armful of towels.

Cameron has her eyes closed again when he gets back and starts spreading the linens over her, and Chase shakes her shoulder urgently, desperate to keep her conscious. "Need your help," he says, piling towels to elevate her feet. "Tell me where you keep the IV supplies. And the Ringer's Lactate."

"That side." Cameron gestures to the other supply closet with her head, then frowns. "But I don't need—"

"Yes, you do," Chase interrupts, hurrying off again.

Somehow he manages to find the supplies, almost as though his hands are working on autopilot, thoughts still racing. He can't allow himself to feel relief yet as he slips the IV needle beneath her skin and gets the line started. This bullet could still prove as fatal as the head wound he's had in his mind, possibly in an even more cruel and painful way. They can't know until she's in surgery, and that still seems eons away at the moment. He doesn't hear the ER fill with people behind him, too intent on getting Cameron stabilized. It isn't until he turns around to wheel the gurney out the door that Chase sees them all. Cuddy, with Foreman at her shoulder. House a few paces back, Wilson standing in front of him like a human barrier. Kutner, Taub, and Thirteen. The members of Cameron's ER staff who have been waiting things out elsewhere in the building.

"Chase," Cuddy says gently, in what he knows instinctively is the beginning of a reprimand.

"She needs to get to surgery right now," he says quickly, before Cuddy can get any further. "Someone call the OR. Tell them we're on our way."

But Cuddy only shakes her head. "Dr. Foreman will take her up. You know you can't go."

"It's my department," Chase begins. "I need to be—"

"No," Cameron interrupts, surprising him with the sudden strength in her voice. "You need to help Richard. He's—he's still seizing. Maybe—there's something you can do."

"_What_?" Everyone turns to stare at her in shock, and it takes Chase an effort to find his voice again. "He shot you. Tried to kill you. You want me to—I can't."

"He doesn't want this," Cameron insists, trying to lift her head. "I saw it. It's—the brain tumor's taken over. This isn't who he is."

"Call the OR," Cuddy orders, and Wilson rushes off toward the nearest phone.

"Please," Cameron pleads, energy fading fast. "Please trust me."

Trembling, Chase leans over and brushes a kiss against her forehead before whispering in her ear, overwhelmed. "I do. And I love you. Please hold on."

Stepping back, he watches numbly as Foreman takes the gurney and wheels it out the door. Nearly everyone else follows, the crowd dispersing almost as quickly as it's formed. Then, Chase forces himself into motion again, kneeling to take Richard's vitals, the only thought in his mind that if this turns out to be her final wish, he'll do his damndest to make it come true.

--

The first thing Cameron becomes aware of is the quiet. It's not silent by any means, but the noises around her are small and detailed so that her mind has to reach for them to interpret their meaning. Close by, there is the soft beeping of a monitor, comforting in its familiarity. In the background, like a chorus, are more monitors, and the warm murmuring sounds of people talking quietly. It's nothing like the din of the ER, nobody screaming or crying or moaning in pain. It's cold in the room, but she's covered in heated blankets, and for a moment Cameron lets the heaviness of her eyelids shield her from the reality of her surroundings, slowly convincing herself that this is real and the ordeal is over.

She can't say whether she's been drifting for minutes or hours when the sound of footsteps and the rustling of people standing around her bed rouses her from the safety of oblivion. Finally making the effort to open her eyes, Cameron blinks the post-op recovery room into focus until she can make out the faces of Foreman and Cuddy. For a second she can't find her voice, and has to swallow several times against the sharp dryness at the back of her throat before she's able to speak.

"What happened?" she manages at last, hoarsely. Her head and side ache dully, she realizes as she allows herself to take in more, and her arms are covered in thick gauze bandages.

"Dr. Foreman got you up to surgery immediately," Cuddy says quietly, pulling the curtain closed around Cameron's bed, blocking them off from the rest of the room. "You lost a lot of blood, and were in shock initially, but Chase did a good job keeping you stable until the rest of us got there."

"And—the gunshot?" Cameron asks, almost afraid to know the answer, though logic says she'd have been told by now if it was truly bad news.

"It was surprisingly superficial," Foreman answers. "It lodged itself just below your diaphragm. The trauma team removed the bullet, but could find no damage to your internal organs. There's still a risk, but—"

"It looks like you got very lucky," Cuddy interrupts. "That shot was one in a million. We've started you on antibiotics, and we're going to keep you overnight for observation."

Cameron nods absently, the skeptic in the back of her mind struggling to accept the reality of her situation. She's never considered herself a particularly lucky person, hasn't believed in fate or god since her life was shattered fifteen years ago. Yet, considering the circumstances, it seems as though it must be far more than a very fortunate accident that's delivered her to this here and now.

"Dr. Cameron," Cuddy continues, drawing her attention back to the present. "You also have more than forty stitches between the cuts on your head and arms. After you go home tomorrow, I want you to rest. And I mean that. Take the next two weeks off. I don't want to see you back here until after New Year's, at least. And if you'd like to talk about reassignment then, I'm sure we can work something out."

"No," Cameron answers, immediately and firmly. The feeling is an instinct, again defying explanation by the rational part of her brain. The ER is her home now, as certainly as the diagnostics office once was. She isn't ready to give it up, abandon it and all of its patrons—each clutching at their last thread in the fabric of hope—in the care of someone else. "I'll take the time off. But I want to keep my job."

Cuddy frowns. "Cameron, after what happened, everyone will understand—"

"It doesn't matter," Cameron snaps, suddenly impassioned in the defense of her job. "House got shot working in diagnostics. Foreman got amoebiasis and almost died working for House. I could—walk out my front door tomorrow and get hit by a car. The thing that caused this was a tumor, not a human being. That's what I fight every day. And I'm not stopping."

For a moment, Cuddy and Foreman just look at her before he takes a stand. "She's right. It's exactly what I did."

Cuddy looks uncertain, but nods anyway. "Well, if you change your mind."

"Where's Chase?" Cameron asks abruptly, glad to change the subject.

"I told him to go get some rest in the on-call room," Cuddy answers, sounding equally relieved not to be discussing reassignment anymore. "He was—sort of a mess. Your surgery's been over for a couple hours, but I thought you could use the sleep."

"Is he okay?" Cameron insists, suddenly worried again.

"He's fine," Cuddy assures her quickly. "Although you might want to keep him away from House for a while. Chase threw a punch, and I'm not sure House understands the concept of karma."

"Chase _punched_ him?" Cameron stares at her, honestly shocked. "What are you going to do?"

But Cuddy only shrugs. "It was self defense. And a long time overdue, if you ask me."

They are interrupted by a nurse whom Cameron vaguely recognizes, but can't quite remember a name for. She quietly attaches another bag to Cameron's IV before turning to Cuddy. "Report called. The room is ready. Should I call transport?"

"No." Foreman holds up a hand, subtly gesturing for the nurse to leave them alone. "I'll take her up."

Settling back against the pillows, Cameron relaxes into the haze of the new medication, lazily watching Foreman disconnect her various monitors for the move. By the time he's rolling the bed down the hall toward the elevator, the monotony of the ceiling tiles has lulled her back to sleep.

--

The second time Cameron comes to the surface of the drug and exhaustion-induced darkness, she's in one of the nicest private rooms in the hospital. Cuddy must have pulled strings, she realizes, looking irritably at the fake plant attempting to obscure the tangle of cords from the various monitors attached to her bed. It's a kind gesture, she knows, but the last thing she wants at the moment is to be coddled like some fragile flower. It makes the residual feelings of helplessness loom large in her mind again, cold and hair-raising at the back of her neck like the ghost of Richard's gun. A knock on the frame of her open door makes Cameron jump and catch her breath.

"Sorry," Chase says softly, moving over to stand in the corner next to the head of her bed. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"It's okay." Cameron swallows, remembering his face in the ER, and the fear in his voice as he'd whispered in her ear. The night is too close again, and suddenly being protected doesn't seem like such a bad thing after all.

Chase clears his throat, clasping his hands behind his back in an oddly formal gesture. "I just wanted to check in, see how you're doing. Your surgery went well. So far your labs have been good, although we'll be following up over the next twenty four hours to be doubly sure there weren't any complications."

"Chase—" Cameron starts, recognizing what he's doing. These are the things he would be telling any post-surgical patient on his daily rounds.

"If there's no change, you can be discharged in the morning," he continues. His voice is deceptively even, but she can see in the tension of his jaw and the muscle that's jumping in his temple that he's terribly upset. "You'll have to change the bandages on your incision at least twice a day for the next couple of weeks. You can shower and everything like usual, but you shouldn't do anything that requires exertion at least until your stitches are out."

"Chase," she tries again, more plaintively this time, but he soldiers ahead, avoiding her eyes.

"So, we'll continue to monitor you throughout the night, and in the morning, the charge nurse will be in to see you about your paperwork." Clearing his throat again, Chase shifts his weight back onto his heels ever so slightly. "Is there—anything else you need?"

"Yeah," Cameron says quietly, purposefully finding his eyes with her own and searching until she can see past the professional façade she's no longer used to having directed at her. "I had a really awful night, so if you don't mind, could you please ask the nurses if they can find my boyfriend? I really need to see him."

"What?" Chase swallows visibly and rocks forward again, almost unsteadily.

"Just come over here?" she asks, voice breaking a little this time. "Please?"

Chase hesitates for another long moment, blinking rapidly, before quickly crossing the remaining distance and sitting on the edge of her bed. He keeps his eyes on the floor, one hand gripping the edge of the blanket. Carefully, Cameron sits up as far as she can, ignoring the slight protesting from the stitches in her abdomen. Physical pain is the last thing on her mind right now, completely overshadowed by the need to have things be right with him. Tentatively, she rests a hand on his shoulder, and Chase inhales sharply, his entire body going taut.

"It's okay," Cameron whispers. "You won't hurt me."

Chase flinches at that, turning very slowly to face her, his eyes almost wild with emotion. For a moment he just sits still, drawing long, shaky breaths. Cameron reaches out again, laying her hand against the side of his face, and everything breaks. In one fluid motion, Chase pulls his legs up onto the side of the bed, wrapping an arm around her and hiding his face in her shoulder as he starts to cry quietly. Turning as much as she can, Cameron hugs back desperately, at once overwhelmed with relief and the sudden enormous weight of what's happened in the past twenty four hours. His breath is warm against her neck, the heat of his tears drawing to the surface the release of emotions she hasn't yet allowed herself to feel until she's sobbing too, hands fisted in the back of his shirt.

"I got you shot," he murmurs brokenly, lips brushing her earlobe. "Thought I got you killed."

"No." Cameron swallows hard, willing the words past the huge lump in her throat. "You saved my life."

Chase shudders in response, a harsh sob slipping from his throat. "I—I shouldn't have—I was going to stay away. Let House handle it. But then Foreman came to find me, and I thought—" He breaks off again and sits up a little to look at her, swiping a hand across his eyes.

"What?" Cameron prompts, suddenly needing to know everything.

"I thought we had a way to save you," Chase answers, voice barely audible. "I didn't even think to—Fuck. I'm sorry."

Cameron shakes her head again, more vehemently this time. "Something had to give eventually. He'd started shooting people already. If we'd just kept stalling—" She closes her eyes for a second and swallows, willing herself not to picture the rest of that scenario. "It was—I don't know. Lucky. Maybe more than lucky. For you to have said what you did when you did—" Cameron shrugs, still struggling with what to make of it. The fear is fading into the background again, leaving in its wake a strange kind of elation, enhanced, she's certain, by the warmth of the drugs.

"You saved my life," she repeats, brushing the backs of her knuckles against his cheek. "Don't question that." Cameron offers him the ghost of a smile. "And I know rounds are in the morning, so don't bother trying that one on me again. Besides, I'm not your patient."

Chase just looks at her, at a loss for words. He's freshly showered, she realizes, and dressed in clean scrubs, but the dark rings under his eyes tell her he hasn't been asleep as Cuddy ordered.

"Are you okay?" Cameron asks, suddenly remembering what she's been told. He clearly is a mess, and she has the sense that she hasn't seen the full extent of it yet. "Foreman said you weren't feeling well."

"Oh." Chase looks taken aback, almost embarrassed. "Yeah. I just—"

Cameron gives him a look that says she's not going to stop prodding until she gets a real answer.

"After we—broke up—" Chase turns his eyes downward again, smoothing wrinkles in the sheet. "I went out and got really drunk. Foreman came to get me after you called House the first time. That's—part of why they wouldn't let me talk to begin with. It was stupid. I'm sorry."

Cameron exhales a long breath, feeling surprisingly relieved. This is proof that she hasn't been so wrong about him or their relationship after all, though she realizes now that she'll have to look closer at the things still left unspoken between them.

"Are you feeling better now?" Cameron asks, and Chase turns to look at her again, surprised. "I'm sure the nurse would bring you anything you want."

"No—it's—You got shot," Chase stammers, wrapping his arm protectively around her shoulders again. "I have a hangover. How can you even—"

"I'm fine," Cameron says firmly. For the moment it's easier not to focus on her own injuries. "I have the good drugs right now. You can worry about me tomorrow when I'm stuck at home."

Chase nods once, his face shifting again into uncertainty. "So—we're okay?"

"Yes," Cameron whispers, laying her hand against the back of his neck and kissing him very gently. Chase makes a little noise in the back of his throat, entire body sagging against the bed as he finally relaxes completely.

"I'm sorry," he repeats quietly. "I should have just told you how I felt. Shouldn't have assumed you knew."

"Well, Cuddy told me to take the next two weeks off." Cameron runs her fingers through his hair, and he shifts to rest his head on her shoulder. "If you want, we can visit my family for New Year's."

"Yeah?" Chase asks, sounding surprised.

She nods. "My mom would be thrilled. I haven't been off on New Year's Eve in ages." It's a slightly terrifying step to take, bringing him home to meet her family, and one she hasn't dared make since the end of her marriage. But it's time, she knows, as if this hasn't been enough of a wake-up call. It's a confidence she more than owes Chase.

"I'd like that," he says softly, shifting to cradle her against his side.

Cameron settles back into the pillows, letting her thoughts drift in the pleasant haze of the drugs and the warmth of his body. But then one final worry asserts itself, so suddenly and unexpectedly that she can hardly believe she's managed to forget until now.

"What happened to Richard?" she asks, breaking the silence.

Chase tenses slightly and blinks. "He's—in a coma. I did what I could, but his brain was already so compromised—Chances are he'll never wake up."

Cameron takes a breath and nods slowly. This seems almost a merciful ending to Richard's fight, she thinks. He's lost himself in the anger and violence of the tumor. At least this way he'll be unaware of his fate.

"Thank you," she says softly, then almost without thinking, "I love you."

Chase's eyes widen, breath catching audibly in his throat. "Do you love me or the morphine?" he asks at last, lightly.

"Possibly both." Cameron rests her forehead against his, willing to leave it at that for today.

Time seems to drift again, first into silence, and then into stillness as well. Cameron watches the light from the window and the shadows on the wall shift from morning into afternoon, her thoughts on the people who have been lost this night. These families whose holiday table will be one seat emptier, who will ring in the new year overshadowed by tragedy.

Much later, when the shadows have lengthened to their fullest, and Chase has fallen asleep on her shoulder, House appears in the doorway. Feeling his eyes on her, Cameron turns instinctively to meet his gaze. After a long pause, House nods once, almost reverently, then turns and leaves without a word.

--


End file.
